Page 11 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

“Don’t forget you owe me two grand,” Kostin replies.

“Two grand out of a million? Whatever you want, buddy.”

I sigh. “Are you two ready?”

Kostin grins at me and nods his head, eyes boring two holes through my skull. He’s captivating even when he’s not focusing his attention on me, but when he is… fucking hell. I’ll admit, it stirs something up in my stomach that I don’t want to feel.

Jerry slaps his hand against the table. “Deal!”

I deal the cards, praying that this game doesn’t end with some kind of physical confrontation. I know Jerry doesn’t like losing, but I have no idea what Kostin is capable of. He has money flooding out of his pores, but I don’t know where it came from. For all I know, he could be some kind of dangerous criminal.

And I have kids with him.

Jesus Christ, I’m so stupid.

Kostin grins at me, the second he looks at his cards. “Hit me.”

I lay down a card, face up. It’s an ace, which could mean anything for Kostin. That’s either a one or a ten, if he wants it to be.

Kostin’s grin widens. “I stand.” He looks at Jerry. “Good luck.”

Jerry frowns, then slaps his hand on his cards. “Hit me, hit me!”

I shake my head, tossing a card down to him. It’s a four.

“Again!”

I put another one down, this time a three.

Jerry nods, a confident smile on his round face. He flips over his cards to reveal a count of twenty. Twenty-one is the highest you can go, and unless Kostin somehow has twenty-one with that ace, this is either a draw or Jerry wins.

Kostin flips his cards, revealing two kings. “Twenty-one,” he says, his deep voice rumbling over me harder than the bass does when I’m on the pole.

“What?!” Jerry springs up to his feet, hands clutching his hair as though he intends to rip it right out over the table. “You had two kings, a twenty, and you asked for another card? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“A lot of things,” Kostin says, standing up slowly. “Now, about the club.”

“No, you must be cheating,” Jerry says, shaking his head while keeping his eyes glued to the double kings and ace. “There’s no fucking way you hit on a pair of kings.”

“I’m stupid,” Kostin replies. “I like the thrill. You can check the cameras if you don’t believe me.”

“There aren’t any cameras in here. It’s the champagne room.”

Kostin shrugs his wide shoulders. “Then I guess you’re going to have to take my word for it.”

Jerry looks up at Kostin, his face turning red. I knew this would happen. Someone was bound to lose his shit, with that much money on the line, and that person seems to be Jerry. I’m glad, because I’m pretty sure Kostin could rip Jerry in half if he wanted to.

“You motherfucker,” Jerry snarls.

That’s my cue to step away from the table. I’ve seen enough fights in my nights at the club to know where this is going. I just wonder what Kostin’s reaction will be. He’s remained as cool as a cucumber up until this point.

“I’ll come back tomorrow, with a few of my guys, and we’ll sign the papers,” Kostin says, placing his beer down on the table.

“You won’t be coming back, because I’m kicking you the fuck out,” Jerry says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small metal object. He flicks it out, and I know then that it’s a knife.

“Jerry, put that shit away,” I urge, suddenly worried that he’s going to do something incredibly stupid, as though gambling away the club wasn’t dumb enough. I suppose he has nothing to lose.

Kostin is quick to respond to Jerry’s threat, reaching inside of his suit jacket and brandishing a pistol.

---